


The Fugitive

by Allegro



Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 4
Genre: Background Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non Consensual Body Stealing, emotional torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegro/pseuds/Allegro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You open the closet, it's just a closet. You can never find the monster that hides inside. Not until it jumps out at you. — Conrad Kellogg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this eating me up for several weeks. Finally got the first chapter out, although the entire story is nearly completed. I own nothing, non profit fun only. The name of the female sole survivor is Poppy Dickens. And I feel horrible for putting her through this.

"Jesus Christ," the receptionist of the Rexford is not known for her tact. Clair Hutchins swears again, this time with even greater vigor. "Did you get chewed up by one of those mutant pooches?"

Poppy smiles. Her arm is slung around Nick's neck; he'd supported her most of the way. Sweet of him to do so, seeing as her leg is a clump of blood and little else, at this point.

"We named him Fluffy," she jokes weakly. Nick's metal hand squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. "He got lucky."

She buckles. Hutchins swears (again), swerving around the desk, her hard hands gripping Poppy's arm and pulling her up.

"Easy," Nick's voice, deep and soothing. "Come now, Kid. We're almost there. Just try to stand. Have you fixed the elevator yet, Hutchins?"

Ah Hutchins, incredulous as always. "With what?"

 

* * *

 

The neon of _Rexford Hotel_ shines behind the glass. Poppy shifts over, groaning deep in her throat. The old springs, rusted to death with nuclear matter, match the sound. Birds flit and twitch in the ceiling sporadically. Despite that, it is a painfully silent night in Goodneighbor, the town of chems and sprung traps.

Nick is opposite, slung over the armchair, paper open and hat off. Nick does not sleep, nor eat. So when she rests, he reads, the dim amber glow of his eyes like headlights in a dark street. His irises flitter up, suddenly, only to be lost as momentary snaps of light behind her eyelids. Poppy keeps her eyes closed tight, cheeks achingly warm. There comes a sigh, and the telltale turn of a page. She is still facing him, her body turned toward the chair, away from the wasteland and the ruins of Boston stretching outside the window. He clicks and whirs and whizzes away in the silence. She listens, matching her breathing with the rattles of his generators.

Sleep pricks her senses. She starts to thankfully sink, the pain in her leg ebbing out into unconsciousness.

 **“How are you doing, soul survivor?”** There’s a rasp in Nick’s gears, something alien shifting between the old rubber lips. It’s not Nick’s voice. It’s not Nick.

_What?_

Poppy chokes on her own tongue, shaking herself awake. Jerking up, she fumbles for her nearby gun, the room spinning, pain exploding from her leg up to her spine. A faint whisper of a thought wonders if the mutant hound was infected with something, anything to hear this, because she is hallucinating, surely, agony driving her imagination wild. But she waits, and Nick has not responded, not asked her what the hell was wrong, was she in pain, do they need another stimpak. She braces herself, breathes in; fixes her gaze across the room.

Kellogg crackles away inside the hollows of the synth’s head. His eyes flicker and wink. An uncommonly crooked smile tears its way into Nick’s face.

She’d taken off her armour, removed her guns and batons and blood stained knuckle dusters earlier that evening. It is stored beside Nick in her large utility bag. Sitting on top of it all is the holodisk stamped with Nate’s love and Shaun’s gurgles. It is slowly retrieved by the synth’s mechanical hand.

“Don’t…” She sits up, a 10mm pistol in her hand, finger on the trigger. It is the only protection she has. The wind blows chilly through the broken glass and shivers on her bare shoulders. She cocks it, but cannot aim. Pointing something like this at Nick is the equivalent of breaking down Shaun’s cradle and using it for scrap. “Don’t, please.”

Warm, old school, world weary Nick is smirking at her; Conrad Kellogg, fifty something husband murdering mercenary, is smirking.

 **“Poppy, is it?”** He drawls lazily. His voice has the fizz and texture of the inside of a radio. “ **I couldn’t quite remember your name. For a long time, you were just the dame in the Ice Box. But Poppy’s nice, I like Poppy. Reminds me of those ol’ feel good radio shows, you know? Mama Poppy in the kitchen, flowered apron and all that, feeding tinned ham sandwiches to the kids? Granted, you never had the chance.”**

He wants her to bite. But Poppy doesn’t, because she’s done with this now, she’s done with him, she’s done with scumbags who shoot husbands without a second thought and bundle babies away behind frozen windows.

“Where’s Nick?” Her voice is barely a whisper. Could this be a nightmare? She can’t hear anyone below, not the bark of a mongrel dog or the laughter of drunks leaving The Third Rail. The room could be suspended in mid air, for all she knows, skittered somewhere in the fibre optics of Kellogg’s brain. As if reading her mind, he taps on Nick’s skull.

 **“Not here,”** is all he says, and the synth’s body is suddenly gone from the old chair.

“Shit!” She scrambles out of bed, the pistol heavy in her hand, her body aching from yesterday’s battles and the fester of the mutant hound bite on her leg. The blankets fall away; she is in slacks and her underwear, armour having been too heavy on her pained body to bare sleeping in.

 _Take a load off, sweetheart._ Nick had said. _I’ll keep the watch. You sleep, and I’ll be the good ol’ gatekeeper. Not like I can sleep, right?_

Wherever he is, he’s sleeping now. Poppy’s breath colours the air; she can’t see him. It’s pitch; the electricity is down.

Behind her, a creak, a snatch of dim amber beside the dresser.

She turns, rapid, on bare heel. She fires; it might get attention, get the watch up here, get the ghouls and Hancock…

It blights off the edge of a boot; a large patch of darkness launches at her.

Whenever Nick had fought, he fired a gun or used fists with devastating accuracy. He was a proper cop, never playing dirty, unless he had to. She had expected he had the strength of a fit, albeit ordinary man. But this, this sudden force, knocks her off her feet and back onto the bed. The air is beaten effortlessly from her lungs; her knee cracks and buckles. He is on top of her, close, horrifically close, and Poppy has never been this close to the snyth before. The gears and circuits and optics snatch and whir in the cracks within his head; the eyes are too alive to be human. Nick had always kept his distance, respectable to the last, had never even touched the skin on her shoulder or the ends of her hair. And now, on some terrible level, she understands why. It’s a cliché, but she opens her mouth to scream. A leathery hand clamps down on her mouth, thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils together.

 _“What’s going on up there?”_ The rough voice of Ms Hutchins echoes on the stairway. Relief is a burst in Poppy’s chest. _“I won’t have any trouble here, or it’s the tarmac for you both!”_

Poppy attempts to bite his hand. A metal knee is rammed into her open sore. She flinches violently, nearly passing out with the pain and the lack of air.

“No trouble here. Sorry for the sudden rumble, we had an accidental misfiring. Back to bed, as promised.” Nick’s accent, perfected. Poppy’s eyes widen. “Good night, Ms Hutchins.”

A disbelieving scoff on the stair, and then footsteps falling away into silence.

 **“There now,”** Kellogg again. **“No more of this stupidity. I trust you to be a little wiser in the future. As for now…”** He tears off a strip of fabric from Nick’s coat; she yelps, struggling, fury and fear pushing back against the pain rupturing her leg. All it takes is another warning blow; she’s back down again, room upside down, and her arms and legs are being secured to each post. A gag is forced into her mouth. “I don’t trust ya, sweetheart,” He adds, in Nick’s voice.

Kellogg moves to her bag, shifting through, separating stimpaks from ammo rounds, humming under his breath. And then, he straightens, as if he’s forgotten something, and moves to hover over Poppy. He picks up the fallen 10mm pistol; examines the handle, smells the trigger where her hands have been. She visibly shudders.

Kellogg brings it down hard.

The world shifts and swims and goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a fine damn morning in Goodneighbor. One of the traders had managed to wrestle into the Financial District without being mugged or blown to bits by super mutants, Brahmin and supplies intact. For Daisy, this is good business, seeing how resources had started to run a little low. She’d paid the boy and managed to convince one of the security to see the trader and his Brahmin back to safety. Nobody could be that lucky a second time.

 

Daisy hums along to the Diamond City Radio. A bunch of bigoted bastards, but at least they play the classics.

 

“This old song again, Daisy?” Nick Valentine, speak of the devil. He tilts his hat in greeting. She grants him a wary old smirk. She remembers men like this, or at least she did, in the ancient film noirs. “I say, you never tire of Bill Crosby.”

 

“Who does?” Daisy rubs her hands on her trousers, smiling. “Anyway, what’s it gonna be for the old private eye? Just got new stock in, fresh off the back of a Brahmin fat enough for thanksgiving.”

 

“Stimpaks, if you have them,” Nick fishes in his pockets for caps. Daisy loves that promising rattle. “And something edible.”

 

Daisy scours through her supplies beneath her table. Out come five stimpaks and two tins of pork and beans. She casually wipes bloatfly goo off one of the tins.

 

“Hey, where’s Poppy? Not like her to send you shopping,” The survivor is no longer known as vault dweller or toots or that weird spin of Silver Shroud. To everyone now, she’s just Poppy. And although she’s quiet and doesn’t speak much, to Daisy she’s become a bit of a staple sight in Goodneighbor. Like a next door neighbour’s spaniel or some shit. “She was beaten up bad. Should I send a medic up? He costs, sure, but he’s damn good at his work.”

 

“Nah, nah,” Nick waves his hand. “No, you know Poppy. Powers on to the end. Try to tell her otherwise, but she won’t listen to me. That’s what the stimpaks are for, although she said she needs a few days rest. Doesn’t want to be disturbed, and who am I to blame her?”

 

“Yeah, well, tell her I done my civic duty, but the offer stands.” Daisy’s tone softens. “Might even get her a discount.”

 

“Mighty kind of you, Daisy,” Nick retrieves his goods, and Daisy her caps. “They don’t call this place Daisy’s Discounts for nothing. I’ll be sure to tell her.”

 

* * *

 

 

  

 **“Got some supplies for you, although I doubt you’ll be grateful.”** Kellogg’s voice is stronger now. It’s low, clear and smooth. The door has been locked securely behind him. Through the floorboards, she heard him bartering with Ms Hutchins for more nights to stay. As Nick, of course. **“You need to eat. I recall you were fatter in that pod. Baby weight, huh? Sarah had the same problem. She looked no different to me, but you know, women.”**

The gag is soaked through with her saliva. She turns her head away.

**“And yes, and I am going to talk about Sarah. And Mary. Got a good look, didn’t you?”** The lid of the Pork and Beans is being prised off. **“Typical of you pre-war suburban types. Always sticking your nose in other people’s business. Now, be a good girl.”**

 

The gag is stripped from her mouth. She coughs, hacking in the back of her throat. Her lungs fill, but once again, she inhales metal and leather. Kellogg forces two fingers down her throat, his thumb pressed upward into her chin. She bites down. He presses the fingers in further. 

 

 **“Now, listen,”** He lowers his head, whispers deep in her ear. **“If you scream, or struggle, or try anything at all, I will take every little bit of ammo, every gun and form of firearm, and I will tear this place apart, starting with Mrs Hutchins downstairs, all the hotel residents, and that miserable little bastard ghoul next door. And I won’t make it quick, and I won’t make it easy. Do you understand?”**

His gaze locks with hers. The yellow shimmers in her watering eyes. She nods, slow.

 

 **“Good,”** He draws the fingers out. Wipes them down on her front **. “You really are compassionate. Now…”**

A spoonful of Pork and Beans is pushed into her mouth. She retches a little. It is cold, uncooked, but the spoon is held securely between her teeth until she swallows. He feeds her like a child. When the tin is finally empty, he leans back, arms crossed, and nods approvingly.

 

**“You’re learning. I appreciate adaptive minds. Especially seeing how you thoroughly appreciated mine.”**

 

He stands up, crosses back to the chair, and retrieves his paper. Beside him are the stimpaks.

 

“Are you not…?” It’s toil to speak. “Are you not…going to?”

 

 **“These? No,”** He smirks. It’s horrible. **“You haven’t earned them yet. So, just lie back, relax, take a load off. You’re not going anywhere.”**

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Bongo Bongo Bongo, I don’t wanna leave the Congo, oh no no no no no….._

Jesus knows where the radio came from. The thump of the music skitters the dark beneath her lashes. As much as she hated to admit it, she had slept. It felt like she had slept for days. The rare exception was when she needed to relieve herself, and he had hobbled her to the door and supervised, much to her humiliation. The lack of stimpaks and the pain was making her weak, making her easy to monitor.

 

Where had that radio come from?

 

Kellogg has his feet on the dresser, leant back against the chair, rocking on its back legs. His eyes are closed, and he nods his head aimlessly along to the beat.

 

One eye flits open, and fixes on Poppy.

 

She tries to break contact, tries to will herself back to unconsciousness, but it’s too late.

 

 **“Awake, are you?”** He lights a cigarette **. “Shaun liked this song. Possibly because it was always one of my favourites. An affectionate copycat, your boy.”**

The bizarre fondness makes her skin crawl. Kellogg is once again attempting a rise out of her, she knows, but no, not Shaun. Her baby's name deserves no place on that monster's tongue.

 

“No,” She shakes her head. “No. Just don’t talk.”

 

 **“Oh?”** His feet are once again on the ground. A roll in her stomach, but he doesn’t move. Just sits, inhaling and exhaling smoke. **“You know, I find two things funny about you, Poppy. You don’t want me to speak about your son. Hah, that makes me question what kind of mother you would have been in the long run…”**

 

“Bastard!” She hisses, spitting through her teeth. Not too loud, never too loud, for her heart pounds for the people who don’t know there’s a snake in the grass. “Shut your mouth!”

 

 **“And,”** he continues, patient. **“You haven’t asked me to kill you.”**

 

She falls quiet.

 

 **“Ah,”** His lips twist. He adds, in Nick’s voice; “Quite the detective, aren’t I?”

 

“Stop it!”

 

**“You know, if you want to stay alive in order to see your son for your heartfelt reunion, you are going to be disappointed. It would be easier if you died, remembering him as a gurgling ball of fat you could hug and hold before he learned to push you away. Truly, you’re blessed.”**

 

Spite pricks her. Hatred impales her.

 

“What, like Mary? What would she think of you now, huh? Good thing she died before she had the chance to grow up and see what a beast her father was.”

 

A hush.

_They have things like the atom bomb, so I think I'll stay where I am –_

Wires, batteries, polished wood goes flying. Kellogg stomps on the radio, again and again, with Nick’s body in Nick’s boots, and the show makes her head spin.

 

The remainders of the radio crackle and spark on the floor.

 

Kellogg’s tone is pleasant.

 

**“Don’t do that again.”**

 

He sits down and resumes his cigarette.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Shaun is a good kid._

Poppy’s sleep is fitful. Rope burns her ankles and wrists. The shadows and light merge around her. She thinks he’s giving her something when she sleeps, something to make everything an incomprehensible haze.

 

_You’ll die knowing he’s in a loving home._

Water is pushed into her lips. She opens her mouth; drinks.

 

The cup is pulled away. Her head follows; her lips are so, so dry. The taste of pork and beans are rancid in her mouth.

 

 **“There we go,”** Kellogg, sounding almost kind. **“You’re doing better.”**

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Hey, Nick,” Hancock flicks away his cigarette into the gutter. “How’s she doing with the stuff you wanted? Unlike you to request drugs.”

 

“Everything’s a drug to you, Hancock,” is the droll reply. “Anyway, it’s not a drug. It doesn’t give her a high, just helps her relax. The pain is bad, but it’s worse in her head. Night terrors, now. Keeps me going most nights. She told me to get them for her to improve things for me. Kept telling me to rest.”

 

“Telling a synth to take a break? Fuck, she must be fuzzy.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t like giving them to her. Can’t make her listen. But rattling out the closet skeletons via an old fashioned heart to heart isn’t working. She’s a grown woman, tells me not to fuss. So I trust her judgement.”

 

“Right.” Hancock’s eyes glint. “And the stimpaks aren’t working, or…?”

 

“They’re working, alright. It’s just what’s going on in her head. She needs this break, Hancock. I’ve sent word to Preston. And like it or not, I’ve been hired as her gatekeeper. She won’t see anyone. Weird, I know.”

 

“Yeah,” Hancock’s gaze is steady on him. “Weird. Not like Poppy to step back from her friends. How’s Curie doing with all that? You know what she’s like when someone’s sick. Remember when I got so high I forgot my own name? I woke up in Sanctuary with a damn thermometer in my mouth, I shit you not. Regardless, she got pissy when I invited her to be my personal water bottle. Didn’t go well.”

 

“Well, you deserved that.”

 

“Sure I did." Hancock smiles lazily, but there is a tiny twitch in his fingers, an impatience. He chuck's the end of Nick's chin; the synth does not respond. He clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Just keep an eye on her, Valentine.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nick makes his way up the stairs. Something neat and blue is folded inside a bag kept at his side.

 

A gnarled hand reaches out and grips his sleeve.

 

“Hey, you,” The Hotel’s resident ghoul steps out of his room. He’s dressed in a surprisingly clean tan suit. Unlike a few others, this ghoul has hair. Its starchy yellow, pinned flat to his hollow forehead. “Hey. Detective, right? I need to speak to you.”

 

“Sorry sir, not taking on any more cases at the moment. Got a sick friend to look after.”

 

“I don’t want a darn case!” snarls the ghoul. His face falls, and he coughs, adjusts his tie with shaky digits. “Sorry. It’s just – I need to talk to that woman. Her name is Poppy, isn’t it? I knew her before the war. She’s…she’s perfect! Not a scar, not a blemish! How is that possible?”

 

Nick coldly shakes off his grip.

 

“That’s her business, and that’s for her to tell when she’s better,” He coils his mechanical hand into a fist, wagging his finger in the ghoul’s general direction. “You don’t interrupt her, you hear? And frankly, I don’t like the way you speak about her. Makes you sound like one of these peeping toms I had to bang away prior to the the big boom.”

 

The ghoul recoils.

 

“I would never – how fucking dare you, Valentine,” He growls. “I may be a ghoul, but I’m not an animal.”

 

“I’m not sure.” There is a cruel quirk in the corner of Nick’s mouth. “What with that temper, I’m not sure how far away you go from going feral, and the fact I have to say this in Goodneighbor, that’s just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

 

“Please,” The ghoul breaks. “Please, please just let me speak to her. Look at her. I have to know. I have to see. There has to be someone, someone who knows.”

 

“I rest my case,” He replies. “You keep on like that, and I’ll have to get Hancock to have a look at you. The safety of my client is my upmost priority.”

 

Like many a time before, the door is slammed in the ghoul’s face.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who- who was that?” Poppy sluggishly turns to look at him. “Who…?”

 

 **“Nobody of importance,”** Kellogg puts the bag down. He turns up the radio, lights a cigarette, and starts preparing her next meal. She focuses on the broad back, the patched up coat, the bald and broken synth head.

 

“One of these days,” She whispers. “One of these days, I’m going to kill you.”

 

**“And hurt your poor old antique? I don’t think so, and you don’t either, so no more lies. I find it boring.”**

 

He approaches her with a steaming bowl. She twitches. It’s Brahmin stew. She regards it, and him, with suspicion.

 

 **“You seem a little stronger,”** He sits beside her. **“Any reason why you’ve regained the will to live, or do you really like the radio? I fixed it for you, which is more than you deserve.”**

 

“Why…?” She’s so hungry, so weak, so tired. “Why are you doing this?”

 

The stew is propped between her lips. She eats it, slowly, feels the warmth and comfort of it. Her eyes slowly begin to fill with tears.

 

“Nick,” She pleads. “Nick, please. Nick, I need you.”

 

“Ah, well,” He says as Nick. “Not here, Doll. Sorry, but you can leave a message.”

 

She spits the stew back in his face.

 

“Fuck you, Kellogg. Fuck you and your half conscience to hell.”

 

 **“No point in making any promises you can’t keep,”** He flicks the stew off his face with a single finger. **“And to think, I was being nice. You know how to break a man’s heart, Poppy.”**

 

He rolls his head to the side, eyes blinking on and off.

 

“You look like him. You look like Shaun. Those eyes, that mouth always looking like it was poised to smile. You know…”

 

The spoon is forced back into her mouth.

 

**“This stew was Shaun’s favourite. I just wondered if you wanted a bit of your son back, that’s all. You see, I’m not a complete monster. You eat that up like a good girl. But for what you did, you’re gonna pay for that later, I’m afraid to say.”**

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _Hi honey!”_

“Nate?” She burbles. The holodisk has been played, again and again, Nate and Shaun wishing her love mingled with  tiny baby laughter. It breaks the silence, stews the shadows in her mind to a world not given way to rust and decay.  Poppy’s going crazy, but she thinks she can feel him near, that all this war has been a dreadful dream inspired by too many Vault Tec adverts.

 

Cold metal fingers slink their way down her cheek and tip the edge of her chin.  Poppy sobs, squeezing her eyes tight.

 

“Nate, I love you,” she continues.

 

_“Bye honey, we love you.”_

* * *

 

“No, no, no!” Curie trills. She has turned the head of everybody since she arrived. “It is imperative that I see to my patient! I have alerted friends as it is customary to do so in moments of emotional human crisis. Poppy’s continued absence is a worry to many of our group.”

 

“That it is, indeed,” Nick shrugs. “And I couldn’t agree more. But she won’t listen.”

 

“Then surely the time has come to respectively override her wishes,” says Curie firmly. “It is good to process one’s desires, but not when they are causing harm to themselves.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say she was causing harm to herself,” Nick lights a cigarette. Curie tsks. “But she knows what she’s doing. I know you mean well, but you mustn’t treat her like a kid. She won’t like that, Curie.”

 

“I must say,” Codsworth, the robot butler, has finally cut in. His three Cyclops eyes twiddle around each other, nervous. “I too am worried about Miss Poppy. It is not like her to do this, not at all.”

 

“Well, all the more reason to let her alone, then,” Nick’s tone is hard. “Until she feels like herself. Nannying her is just going to push her further away. She’s told me that herself, ‘fraid to say.”

 

“I…what?” Codsworth wobbles on his flame. “Are you being serious? Surely not, we do not _nanny_ her, we merely worry.”

 

“I too find it hard to believe that Poppy would act in such a way,” Curie states. “And if she has, it is because of this strange new emotional upheaval.”

 

“Do you mean grieving?” intercepts a polite Codsworth.

 

“Yes, precisely. The expression of and symptoms of mourning which can be controlled and comforted via close social contact with…” Curie’s cheeks blush, albeit she stays stern as ever. “…those who love her.”

 

“And it is also self sacrificing,” Nick’s voice rises. “To allow her the **space** and **respect** she has personally asked for. Now I don’t want to hear anymore about it. Don’t make me have to be the bad guy and the one who protects her from you both. Don’t put me in that position.”

 

“Oh come now, old chap,” Codsworth tendrils extend apologetically. “We did not wish to force this on you. Please, no offense intended.” He hovers to Curie, upset. “Maybe he’s right, you know. We should leave.”

 

For someone who has only inhabited her body for a few months, Curie has already mastered a distrusting stare.

 

“No, I do not believe it! She would ask for me, I know it.”

 

“She didn’t.” Nick deadpans.

 

From the corner, Hancock watches, the dark of his eyes deep, thoughtful.

 

As Valentine passes him, back towards the stairwell, does his hand catch his Detective's shoulder.

 

"Hey," He murmurs. "I was wondering, do we have time later..."

 

"No." That finality is alien, to both of them. Valentine does not touch him. "I've got places to be."

 

Nick pulls away as if the touch burns him, scurrying back up the stairs. Hancock's hand is left, aloft. He glances down at it, at the twisted flesh pulled hard against his knuckles. He pulls his hand back inside his pocket; retrieves a cigarette.

 

Curie, blinking away furious tears, glowers at anyone who dares come near. Hancock catches her eye; shrugs in a way too bitter to be casual.

 

"This is all very touching," Ms Hutchins opens a bottle of stout behind her counter."But I own no heartbreak hotel. Take your sorrows to The Third Rail."

 

"Don't mind if I do," Hancock peels himself away from the wall, placing his hat back on his head. "Coming, Curie?"

 

A sequence of familiar refusals flit across Curie's face, before she swallows hard and crosses her arms.

 

"I shall observe the social politics of the commonwealth..." Her voice falters. Codsworth fusses her gently. "...from The Third Rail. Yes, an excellent idea."

 

She marches after Hancock. Codsworth, less than thrilled, takes chase.

 

"Now, Ms Curie! I must protest! Are you sure you understand the colloquialism of "drowning one's sorrows...?" 

 

 


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have little reason for waiting a year to update this. Sorry for any delays!

“Ah, Mr Valentine, are you well?” Amari greets him, even as she is lent over her terminal. Bags drag beneath her eyes.

“Been working too hard, doc?” Nick sits down, trench coat gathered at his knees. Amari frowns at the tear down its side.

“Working fine, thank you. What have you done to yourself?”

“Got snagged on a mutant hound. Anyway, you know why I’m here.”

“I do.” Her forehead creases in thought. “And I am not happy about it.”

“Neither am I. But it's what she wants. She says it is the only thing that can help her now.”

“It is a highly experimental drug, powerful and intoxicating, affecting all of the senses. A four dimensional LSD. It requires the correct stimulus in order to work to its fullest potential. And she understands this?”

“Yes, gave her the full low down. Ran her by the risks, and she is using an old holodisk of her family to help prepare her for it.”

“A holodisk?” Amari sighs. “That is the stimulus? How tragic. And this is how she thinks she can truly beat this funk of hers?”

“Yes, so it seems.” He gestures at the memory pod. “And if it works, it’ll help her access her happier memories, hopefully putting the horror to rest.”

“The right stimulus is essential,” Amari nods. “When the drug takes hold, it well gravitate to that stimulus and recreate it as it sees fit. Make sure she is in a safe, familiar space. Have objects of comfort to hand. Monitor her closely, Valentine. Of course, I would prefer to supervise…”

“Not necessary, Ma’m,” Nick stands, putting on his hat. “I’ve got it under control. She wants me to do it, nobody else.” He stands up; holds out his hand for the syringe.

Amari’s eyes dart to his hand, then to him. She inhales deeply, and unhooking her key from her belt, turns to her drawer. Nick watches her unlock it. In the dome of the memory pod, his smile is reflected.

“There we are,” she hands it to him in a square brown box. “Just be careful, and keep her safe.”

The fingers grasping the box shake. His head is bent forward, teeth gritted, the yellow of his eyes churning black and back again.

“Good god, Mr Valentine…!”

“D-Don’t let _**him**_ ,” Amari has never heard Nick screech before. But it’s there, and it’s ugly and so _desperate_. “Do **not** _let him_ , I beg you, don’t -!”

“Mr Valentine, please stand up and speak plainly!” The formality is amplified by her uncharacteristic panic.

“Ah…ahaha,” Nick chuckles, and it’s typically rusty, and Amari gasps and covers her chest. “Sorry about that, a bit of short circuiting. Anyway, don’t tell Hancock. He’ll want his hands on that, especially if it is as powerful as you say.”

“Mr Valentine, that is not something as simple as short circuiting! Please, allow me to examine you.”

“Oh, that’s a mighty fine offer, but I’m doing fine.” He tips his hat in her direction. “What did you call it? A few inconvenient impressions, or something like it?”

 

.

 

  
**“I have something for you, Poppy,”** Kellogg’s whisper, a tingle along her earlobe. Poppy stares straight away, past the flare of his pupils. **“Don’t you want to see it? It’s sweet and I think it’ll suit you, make you prettier then you’ve been in a while. What do you say?”**

“I know about the dress,” Her response is flat. She surveys the grime collected along the walls of the Rexford Hotel ceiling. She could name every mushroom and damp patch in this place. “And I don’t know why you brought it, except maybe to humor me. I’m sure you have your sick reasons.”

 **“Not every reason I had was sick. They were mostly convenient.”** He touches her hair, trimming his finger around her messy fringe. **“You seem resigned. That’s good. Healthier, better. And I don’t want to hurt you, at least, not as much as I did. I think we have a few things in common.”**

Kellogg removes a knife from his boot. He braces it beneath the binds that anchor her wrists and ankles, and cuts each one with a satisfying snap.  And as he expects, and as she knows, she is too weak to fight, not now, not with god knows what in her blood and the lack of movement over the last fortnight. He places a metal hand beneath her back, another beneath the curve of her legs, and lifts her. Poppy raises a fist and hits it hard against his chest, before the room swims once more. 

 **“Heh. I used to lift Sarah like this.”** Another whisper spun in her ear. **“And dear Nick did the same to Jenny, in the rare instance he was in a good mood.”**

“Who…?” It disgusts her, the way her head rolls into his shoulder, but she can almost pretend this is Nick, for even if he has Kellogg’s voice, he smells like Nick. Thank God she set fire to all those blasted, stinking cigars. “Who’s Jenny?”

 **“Old girlfriend of Nick’s. Murdered, pre-war.** ” Bitterness a prick in his voice. **“His fault. Like it was my fault. We both messed with things beyond us. And we both paid the price.”**

Kellogg carries her into the bathroom. The dress, freshly laundered and a baby blue, is hung up on the door. He sits her down.

“Freshen up, doll.” He says in Nick’s voice. “I want to take you out dancing tonight. I know I’ve been working too hard. Sorry, Jenny.”

“I’m sorry too, Jenny,” Poppy almost laughs; hysteria bubbles in her throat. Is he going to truly, truly do this? The dress is crisp and pretty, three gold buttons down the front.

“You really want me to…?” She points at the dress, aimless. “Are you crazy? How the hell…”

Kellogg wears Nick’s eyes like a bobcat.

Her lip curls.

She strips, aggressively, ignoring Kellogg, ignoring the shudder as she catches sight of him in the mirror. Her brown skin, the white cesarean scar slashed across her soft belly, her broad back and strong legs, her white, conservative underwear; he observes every single detail of her. She splashes the water on her face, shakes out her hair. If only she could dissolve her skin in acid. The air is close, too near to the bile on her tongue, too intimate. The dusty hum of Kellogg only adds to the claustrophobia.

Poppy reaches for the dress. Its damn fine, finer than anything she’s seen in a long time.

 **“Nice, isn’t it?”** Kellogg leans back against the door, in a way so woefully unValentine. Typical condescending bastard. **“Put it on.”**

He’s not staring at her legs, her exposed body, but at the dress. It flutters out as it slips down over her waist. A pair of yellow shoes accompany it, and a belt.

Kellogg’s smile is triumphant. He circles Poppy, clicking his tongue, synthetic finger lining the collar.

 **“God damn it,”** He whispers. **“I would have taken down an entire route of raiders to see Sarah in something like this.”**

“Is this what this all about, then?” Poppy twists her head to look him in the eye. Kellogg rests his head on her shoulder from the back, his hands slowly drifting up her forearms. He leans his head almost playfully to the side, to meet her eyes. He is smiling slightly. “I’m not Sarah, so I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

 **“Ah, this isn’t about Sarah,”** Kellogg chuckles as he pulls away. Poppy breathes out as his weight leaves her back. **“No, this is about you. This is about me offering you an apology.”**

“An apology?” She nearly chokes the words out. “For what? Because you know, I don’t want your apology, Kellogg. I want my son and I want my Nate, and you took them both.”

 **“Well, yes,”** A sound of fabric shuffling. In the corner of a mirror, something long and thin and metallic is slowly emerging from Nick’s battered pocket. **“But I want to give it back to you. In a way.”**

She snatches up the mirror from the wall, and smashes it into the side of his face. Sparks fly; cogs jerk and complain in the hollows of Nick’s head. Kellogg growls deep in his throat, shaking the shards off his coat, and a blur of blue snatches past him. Poppy is fleeing, reaching for the ammo bag, the pistol on the sideboard, reaching for –

A syringe is messily stabbed into her neck.

Agony.

_“Ah!”_

A numbness drains the feeling from her shoulders, from her neck, washing down to her torso and stomach.

Poppy doubles like a doll. The room is spinning, losing shape, seeming to strip away at the edges. Kellogg’s arm is slid around her waist, tipping her over and into his arms. He removes the syringe, sliding it back into the chem cooler.

Kellogg reads her expression. Confusion, terror, fury, but he did not expect the tears. He wipes them away with Nick’s hands.

 **“Ssshhhhh…”** He curls her into him, leaning a rubber cheek onto her head. Damn Nick’s body; a mildewing pile of junk. He misses his skin, misses actual touch as opposed to the firing off of sensors and circuiting. The drug is thankfully taking effect; for a crucial moment, he thought he’d lost her.

Her eyelids flicker; her mouth hangs open and loose. He is certain the world is nothing but colour, nothing but shapes and shadows attempting to find purchase in the fog of her brain.

He lies her down on the bed; arranges her hands, palms over breast, like an illustration from one of the fairy stories Mary would have owned. Beside him is the terminal. One hand activates the holodisk; the other soothes out her hair and comforts her in Nick’s voice.

.

Smoke, all different colours. Colours he's sure have not been invented yet. He grins, vapor issuing from the corners of his gnarled mouth, parting through his teeth. He's lain back on his beaten up couch, watching the ceiling shimmer. Hancock takes another hit; the room takes it with him.

"Hey." A voice he does not recognize, not at first. Husky and full of rot, like his. Another ghoul. He smirks. "Hey, Mayor Hancock. A moment of your good damn time."

"Just waiting for the sweet clouds to clear," Hancock murmurs, already feeling the brunt of a come down. He knows this ghoul, everybody does. Poor bastard misery from the Rexford. He groans, desperately trying to pull back a touch of that pleasurable haze. Gone too soon. "What can your Mayor do for you?"

"I need to see the Vault dweller." Misery's eyes are black and hard. "I knew her before the war. I want to see her. Wanna know why she looks like a baby's backside compared to me."

"Nice way of putting it, but not can do." A cigarette is no Jet, but it is all he has to hand at the moment. "You'll have to go through Nick. Not even I am allowed to enter that room, and I'm your friendly neighborhood representative."

"Nick is not allowing anyone near. Not even the robot butler." Misery growls deep in his throat, but there is a pinch of concern in there somewhere. For himself or for the smoothie, it's hard to tell. "No one is allowed there, not with the synth as the gatekeeper. I've tried, believe me, but he put me down as some kind of creep."

Hancock's smile is wry.

"And what do you think gave him that idea?" Hancock adds, putting his feet up. He's got to keep a dab eye on his citizens, even the ungrateful ones. Misery bristles visibly. "But hey, I can't help us. Just have to wait it out like the rest of us. And no worry, Nick is a good guy, one of the best. Just don't go bothering, alright? If Nick says no, he means no."

"And you trust that damn machine?" Misery has a bone to pick. Typical white collar salesmen, never backing down, even from an upfront refusal.

"Yeah," Hancock is not a great fan of intimidation, but hey, you don't talk shit about his friends. Especially his Nick. “And you better watch how you phrase things in the future. Just a friendly heads up.”

His smile is anything but friendly.

 

.

  
Nick’s voice, is it…?

No, no.

A _detective’s_ voice, gravelly and affected, slurring out insults to a bad guy on the telly. Poppy’s eyelids flicker; she sighs in frustration. Nate must have left the television on again. He loves these shows.

Even with the added noise, she’s still comfortable. The couch, of course, she’s lying on the couch, isn’t she? There was a sale down at the local furniture mart. It’s red and long and perfect for the two of them, well, the three of them, when Shaun is big enough. At the moment, perfect for her. But that damn noise…

 _“This is not what it seems,”_ She can just imagine the idiot on the telly. Fedora tilted over mysterious eyes, a trench coat and a gun buckled to his side. She once caught Nate trying to impersonate a Detective in the mirror. He blamed the fact that it was Halloween; she blamed it on him a fanboy for the Silver Shroud. Hah, good times. _“Wake up and smell the roses, sweetheart! He’s lying to you, none of this is real…wake up! I beg you, please, before he makes me do something I can’t take back! Please…”_

It’s just a silly show, but the urgency in the actor’s voice is making the inside of her head prickle. She shifts, no longer quite so comfortable.

“Nate, if you’re not watching it, turn it off, yeah?”

And oh god, she senses him then, her husband, her Nate, the solid weight of him drawing to the telly and then towards her; the sound is switched off and she no longer feels discombobulated. She opens her eyes. Nate is leaning over her, her big soft man, his smile achingly gentle.

“Oh god,” she murmurs. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

“I could say the same,” He pushes her fringe out of her eyes with his forefinger. Nate, in his white t-shirt and jeans, her Nate, with his cheeked face, his amber flecked eyes, his soldier’s body going soft through domesticity. He frowns. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?”

Poppy is crying, light tears, glossing her vision and making him a large, lovely blur.

“God knows,” She sniffs, rubs her eyes with the back of her hand like a child. “I’m not sure, I just love you so much …”

She reaches for him. He pulls back, suddenly, slipping out of the ends of her fingertips. He stands and turns to the window; looks out suspiciously.

“What is it?” Poppy props herself up on her elbows. Her blue dress is mussed from her nap. “Nate?”

“Just the Vault Tec representative,” Nate says, strangely cool. “Nothing to worry about. He’s trying to sell bobblehead merchandise. Good thing that company is going down the drain.”

Poppy blinks, confused.

“And when were you interested in this, Nate?”

“No, I’m not,” He flashes her a grin. “I just don’t like the way he looks at you. Keeps coming to our door, tries to find any excuse to talk to you….”

“He’s a little bit lonely,” Poppy interrupts. “He’s not a bad person. And I don’t think he’s interested in me, at least in that way. And who would dare to take on my military husband, I wonder?”

“Not scrawny legs, surely.”

“Nate!” She stands, pulling down the hem of her dress. Her arms encircle his neck. Nate is still watching the man outside. “Don’t be so suspicious.”

He turns to her, sudden. She laughs, feeling a little nervous.

“Are you suspicious?” He pushes, sweetly. So sweetly.

“Not of anything,” Poppy's eyelashes are a flutter against her cheeks as she lies her head on his chest. His fingers, oddly cold, circle her back. “Not of anything.”

 


End file.
